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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25427548">the beauty of thy peace</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b'>jenna221b</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Do It With Style Mini Bang (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Omens Mini Bang, Good Omens Mini Bang 2020, Grief/Mourning, London Underground, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), The Blitz, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), World War II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:27:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25427548</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Between the two of them, Crowley knows they’ve seen a lot of things. They can either float through hard times or drown.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Crowley has already made his decision.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What?” he says, a perfect show of nonchalance. “Why are you looking at me like that?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aziraphale’s smile widens. His gaze flits down, then back up to meet Crowley’s eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You look like something out of a film,” Aziraphale says. His hand reaches up in a fluttering gesture towards Crowley’s hat and glasses. “Very debonair.” </em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Omens Mini Bang, comfort fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the beauty of thy peace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written by jenna221b as part of the Do It With Style Events Good Omens Mini Bang. Beautifully illustrated by <a href="https://khenqart.tumblr.com">khenqart.</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Dear, how my mind wanders’, she checked herself. What she meant was, change had to come, unless things were perfect; in which case she supposed they resisted Time. Heaven was changeless.</p><p>
  <em>—Virginia Woolf, Between the Acts</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>I sometimes hold it half a sin</p><p>To put in words the grief I feel</p><p>
  <em>—Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Crowley’s got into a bad habit, over the millennia. It’s sort of like when you make up a rule for yourself, and you’ve got to pretend like it’s true so that it’ll have power over you. If he thinks of the worst thing that can ever possibly happen, then he’s stopped it from happening. Knock on wood.</p><p>The problem comes when you imagine things, and then they <em>can </em>come true. Like a car miraculously driving through flames. Like an unbearable loss you were too late to prevent.</p><p>And, of course, there’s a catch (there always is). Crowley has found his mind has created a horrific contradiction. By imagining something over and over and over, he can either avoid it entirely or have brought it upon himself. <em>You have damned yourself.</em> He doesn’t like this sort of gamble. He can never really tell which way it’s going to go.</p><p>Like now, where he knows, of course he knows, he always does—he bloody well <em>knows</em> that there is no smoke on this bus. The thing is, just knowing that doesn’t stop him from smelling it.</p><p>Crowley takes a breath, chances a glance at Aziraphale. He’s looking out of the window, a little crease between his eyes. Thinking, always thinking. Weighing up options. When to flee, when to fight. When to stay. So terribly damned clever. He keeps twirling the scrap of paper over and over in his hands. Miracle it didn’t burn.</p><p>The smoke creeps closer, coating his tongue, making his eyes sting. Crowley blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to force spots out of his vision. But, he’s not stared at the sun too long (not this time).</p><p>Pages devoured by hungry, relentless flames. Flames around an angel, an angel who should never have flown so close to hell and you put him there, <em>you</em>—</p><p>Through the smoke, he can just make out Aziraphale’s lips moving. He’s saying <em>Crowley</em>. Why? Crowley can’t hear, like a radio tuning in on the wrong frequency, over and out. It’s funny, he’d forgotten fire has a sound. The roar around him, inside him. He should—he should move. Can’t suddenly. <em>Crowley, he’s got a gun. Do something!</em></p><p><em>Can’t, angel, I’m sorry</em>. <em>I’m so sorry.</em></p><p>Crowley realises he must have said something out loud, because Aziraphale is staring at him. His lips move again, and Crowley strains to listen.</p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p>Sound returns in a disorientating rush. Crowley can hear two realities superimposed on one another: Aziraphale looking up at him, the bus engine droning, with hungry flames still surrounding them, licking across every seat.</p><p>And Crowley realises the reason Aziraphale is looking up at him is because he is standing in the bus aisle. He has no memory of having moved. Reality seems too sharp, too overwhelming to be real. The interior of the bus shimmers like a mirage. He fights to keep his feet steady.</p><p>“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, hushed, careful. “What is it?”</p><p>
  <em>(How do you say I’m worried I’m going to destroy us?)</em>
</p><p>“Nothing—I’m just…” Crowley hopes how he quickly reaches and clings to the top of a seat for balance can pass as casual. “I’m just going to—need to tell the driver about—about—”</p><p>His throat is closing up, the words dying before they can even be voiced. Perhaps it’s for the best. If he says it out loud, perhaps the fire will really burn. Perhaps Aziraphale will see it, too.</p><p>Air. He needs air. He’s staggering, making his way further down the bus. His hands slide clumsily across a passing window, fumbling for the handle. He can hear Aziraphale following from behind, his footsteps sounding remarkably even.</p><p>“Crowley, stop, would you just—”</p><p>“I’m fine, it’s fine, I—”</p><p>Crowley’s hand scrabbles for something to hold onto, and slips from the window. Aziraphale takes his hand. Squeezes once. And then, he opens the window like it’s the easiest thing in the world. (Maybe it is). His eyes are alight with understanding. Kindness radiates from the depths, an inner fire, one that Crowley knows will never hurt him.</p><p>There’s a cold wind whipping through the window crack, now. Crowley watches as Aziraphale shivers, just a little. Enough. He tries to catch his breath, wills his heart to slow down, wills the smoke to clear.</p><p>“You can—” He swallows. “You can close it, now.”</p><p>Aziraphale eyes him carefully. He shivers again, but he’s somehow still standing tall, sure, immovable.</p><p>“No, I rather think not,” Aziraphale says.</p><p>“Angel, you’re—” Why is it suddenly so hard to speak? “You’re getting cold.”</p><p>Aziraphale smiles, fond, like something’s moved him beyond words, and Crowley has no idea what it is. “That hardly matters, my dear.”</p><p>“Y-yeah, it does,” Crowley insists. He suddenly has that panicked, familiar feeling that they’re not having the same conversation at all. “It matters if it’s you.”</p><p>Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it. He reaches across and pushes the window so it’s only open a fraction, with still enough room for fresh air to drift in. With a little nod of the head, he gestures towards the seat closest to the window.</p><p>It’s only when Crowley sidles in and sits down, that he realises they are now the only passengers on the bus. “Did you really… <em>another</em> miracle?” he asks, baffled.</p><p>Aziraphale just tilts his head in confusion. And, when Crowley indicates the empty seats, he blinks. “They… the bus has made a few stops by now, Crowley,” he says slowly, as if he’s choosing his words with great care. “We’ve been driving for a good half an hour.”</p><p>“Oh,” Crowley says. He feels utterly at sea. “Sorry, I don’t—I don’t know why I…”</p><p>“Exhaustion, I should think.”</p><p>“Yeah, well…” Crowley only just resists the urge to slump against the window. “Reckon stopping time will do that.”</p><p>It’s meant to be a feeble boast Aziraphale can tease him relentlessly for. But, instead, the reply Crowley gets is protective and affectionate: “Yes, I can only imagine. And a great deal more besides.”</p><p>There’s a gentle tap against the back of Crowley’s hand, and Crowley automatically turns it until his palm is facing up. Aziraphale’s index finger slowly brushes along the skin, tracing the lines on Crowley’s palm. Every touch is grounding, reminding Crowley where he is, who exactly is beside him. Aziraphale doesn’t seem bothered at all by touching skin that is no doubt clammy with cold sweat.</p><p>“How’s my fortune? Life-line looking alright?” Crowley jokes, barely stifling a yawn.</p><p>“Very long indeed.” And then, Aziraphale is holding his hand properly. “Never ending, in fact.”</p><p><em>Not for long</em>. He doesn’t say it, but of course Aziraphale knows him so well that he must have been heard, anyway. His other hand cups over Crowley’s, another soothing touch.</p><p>Finally, finally, Crowley can feel his breathing slowing down, little by little. Now that the smoke has cleared, he finds the bus’s indoor lighting suddenly glaring, even with his glasses on. He hears Aziraphale give a little murmur of realisation, then something that sounds very like “<em>Oh</em>, you poor thing,” but said so quickly, in one breath, that Crowley can almost pretend it was never said.</p><p>All at once, the lights dim to a comforting glow. Crowley’s eyelids grow heavier in response.</p><p>“You shouldn’t,” he mumbles, yawning against what he belatedly realises is Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You… someone might notice.”</p><p>“Ah, I see,” Aziraphale says. The smile is evident in his voice. “Just like they might notice a bus route diverting from Oxford to London.”</p><p>“That’s…s’different,” Crowley says. He is no longer able to fight the tired slur in his words. “What you just…s’frivolous.”</p><p>Aziraphale tuts. “I’ll be the judge of whether my miracles are frivolous, thank you very much.” For a moment, the faux-snippy tone has Crowley back in a prison in Paris, marvelling at an angel’s boldness. Then, Aziraphale’s voice lowers into something much more serious: “Ensuring your comfort will never be frivolous, my dear. Not to me.”</p><p>Crowley does not know what to say.</p><p>There is silence for a few moments. Crowley looks out of the window, and it looks so dark that he can’t really tell the difference when his eyes keep closing. His body drifts slightly with the repetitive motion of the bus. He reacts almost too late, his own arm bracing between the seats so he doesn’t shove against Aziraphale.</p><p>But, Aziraphale just leans against him, as if in reply.</p><p>“There, see? Not to worry. They’re a very steady driver, dear.”</p><p>And, deep down, he knows Aziraphale doesn’t mean it like this, but Crowley still hears <em>not like you</em>. He stops himself from wincing. But, Aziraphale must still see <em>something </em>in his expression, because he suddenly wraps his arm around Crowley’s shoulders, squeezing reassuringly.</p><p>“Do you know, Crowley,” he says, with the mildness of someone talking about the weather. “I’ve never once doubted your ability to get us precisely where we need to be.”</p><p><em>That deserves a quip</em>, Crowley thinks distantly, but he’s becoming rapidly too tired to think of one. His eyes blink, slow and sleepy at blurred streetlights. He doesn’t see flames anymore.</p><p>“There you go,” Aziraphale says gently, and between one blink and the next, Crowley slips into sleep.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>You’re something between a dream and a miracle.</p><p>  —<em>Elizabeth Barret Browning</em></p><p> </p><p>My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.</p><p>“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.</p><p>  “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?</p><p>“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”</p><p>—<em>T.S. Eliot</em>, <em>The Waste Land</em></p><p> </p><p>For once, the sound of sirens doesn’t shoot a spike of fear into Crowley’s lungs. How can it, Crowley thinks. He doesn’t need to worry about anything, as he turns and sees Aziraphale still standing there, lit up by the flames. Aziraphale is staring at him, half-smiling, like nothing’s changed, like Crowley somehow hasn’t ruined everything. Like they still have a chance.</p><p>But then Crowley looks closer. There’s something there, he realises. Underneath the warmth of his smile, there’s an odd dull glint to Aziraphale’s eyes, as they reflect the destruction all around them.</p><p>Between the two of them, Crowley knows they’ve seen a lot of things. They can either float through hard times or drown.</p><p>Crowley has already made his decision.</p><p>“What?” he says, a perfect show of nonchalance. “Why are you looking at me like that?”</p><p>Aziraphale’s smile widens. His gaze flits down, then back up to meet Crowley’s eyes.</p><p>“You look like something out of a film,” Aziraphale says. His hand reaches up in a fluttering gesture towards Crowley’s hat and glasses. “Very debonair.”</p><p>Crowley snorts. “Flattery will get you nowhere, angel.”</p><p>Aziraphale has a sly grin now, glancing up at Crowley from under his lashes. <em>Cheeky, angel</em>. “Is that so?”</p><p>There’s a louder screech of sirens, and the moment ripples and breaks around them. Aziraphale clears his throat, tightening his hold on the bag of books.</p><p>“I suppose we should—ah, that is… you lead the way.”</p><p>Crowley does. He keeps looking back, just in case, and stops when Aziraphale stumbles over some rubble. “Careful,” he says. He knows it sounds too gentle, too heavy for the lightness they want to create.</p><p>Aziraphale nods, as if to himself. His free arm is outstretched, wavering like he’s on a tightrope. Crowley only just resists the urge to help steady him. Instead, he waits until Aziraphale totters over to his side.</p><p>“You’re the one somehow not tripping over on consecrated ground. How on earth do you manage it?” Aziraphale asks.</p><p>Oh. ‘On earth’. Not ‘in heaven’s name.’ That’s new. Crowley likes it.</p><p>“It’s not as bad as I made it sound,” he says, hoping it’s convincing.</p><p>Aziraphale hums in consideration. He wobbles slightly, and makes an aborted movement, almost as if he could have grasped Crowley’s sleeve.</p><p>Now that they’re out of the range of the church, it’s as if the usual Blitz darkness has reached over to cloak the streets again. If Aziraphale wasn’t still right beside him, Crowley wonders if he would even be able to see him.</p><p>“Well,” Aziraphale sighs, head tipping upwards to the sky. “At least they can’t black out the moon.”</p><p>Crowley can’t help it. He laughs, the sound startles out of him. It hangs in the air between them, unselfconscious.</p><p>“What have I said <em>now?</em>” Aziraphale says. He sounds like he’s aiming for exasperated, but Crowley can see his lips already twitching, curling into another smile.</p><p>“It’s, uh—it’s a song. I’ll find the record, play it some time.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>is </em>it?” Aziraphale says.</p><p>He sounds like the epitome of innocence, and Crowley knows instantly what he’s angling for.</p><p>“No,” he says. His heart skips a beat at the familiar teasing patterns he’s eager to fall back into. “Absolutely not.”</p><p>“But, Crowley, who knows when we’d have the chance to listen to a record, when it would be so much easier for <em>you</em> to—”</p><p>“Angel, you’ll hear me sing when—”</p><p>“What?” Aziraphale blinks, eyes wide and coy. “Hell freezes over?”</p><p>Crowley laughs again. “Shut it. That lift home could be easily cancelled.”</p><p>“Goodness,” Aziraphale says, affecting offence and failing completely. “That would rather ruin the tone of your rescue.”</p><p>They walk on in a silence that, if left unchecked, could easily become uncomfortable. But then, Aziraphale breaks it—only just. His voice is so quiet, that Crowley could almost miss it underneath the sound of their own footsteps: “You didn’t have to…” It sounds as if he’s talking to himself, and he has realised something earth-shattering. He says it again, louder, and he has that stunned sort of look on his face again, like he’s not sure whether to smile or not. “You really didn’t have to.”</p><p>Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t be daft,” he says, because that is safer than saying, <em>“I don’t want to imagine a reality where I wouldn’t come and find you.”</em></p><p>Aziraphale’s eyes are piercing. They flicker over Crowley’s face again, and Crowley does not know what he is searching for, or even hoping to find. But, Aziraphale must find whatever it is, because he is properly smiling, now, dimples unmistakable even in this near darkness. His stride slows until he’s almost stopped walking entirely.</p><p>Crowley clears his throat. “C’mon, angel, keep up.”</p><p>Aziraphale shakes his head, and hastily resumes walking. “Sorry, it’s just… nigh on eighty years, Crowley.” There’s a hushed little laugh wrapped into the way he says Crowley’s name. “I’m finding it quite—I can scarcely believe you’re really here.”</p><p>“If it helps, you look like you’ve barely aged a day.”</p><p>Aziraphale laughs, but the sound tapers off, wistful. “You know full well that isn’t what I meant.” He doesn’t elaborate, but he does move closer, their arms so close to brushing together. “Do you like the song, then?”</p><p>Crowley, momentarily distracted by the proximity of Aziraphale’s hand, grasps for wherever the conversation is now heading. He had forgotten just how much Aziraphale can leap back and forth on something, following an invisible, meandering train of thought in delighted anticipation at Crowley keeping up. Perhaps eighty years is longer than he thought.</p><p>“What song?”</p><p>“The song you won’t sing.”</p><p>
  <em>And like a love light in your eyes, they can't black out the moon.</em>
</p><p>“Ahh, well, it’s… catchy,” Crowley concedes. He scuffs his heels in an attempt at a shuffle, pretending to ignore how it should probably be hurting him. “It’s no Charleston, though.”</p><p>Aziraphale chuckles. “I think you’ve already proved your dancing capabilities tonight.”</p><p>More silence. It’s a strange thing. Crowley would normally be eager to fill it, but some unknown instinct is holding him back. Aziraphale’s eyes are distant, peering up at the moon again. It looks, Crowley thinks, like he’s constantly on the brink of saying Something, but he somehow always manages to avoid it. Like jumping over a breaking wave, just before it reaches the shore.</p><p>Aziraphale’s mouth opens and closes a few times. Crowley waits. Finally: “All that glitz and glamour… did you love it?”</p><p>And, Crowley hears it, there, in the tiniest crack as Aziraphale’s voice rises to phrase the question—as if he’s asking something far more than what he is saying out loud.</p><p>“Well,” Crowley says. “It’s not like I’d ignore anything focussed on <em>frivolity</em>.”</p><p>Aziraphale looks over at him, smiling. “No, I daresay,” he says fondly.</p><p>Crowley recognises the tone, like when Aziraphale lets him rant and bluster about hell back in Rome. Laughing over oysters. Aziraphale’s smile told him everything, then. That he knew Crowley was hurting, but there would be no fear of him ever mentioning it. That he knew Crowley just needed to laugh—have someone on his side, for once.</p><p>Now, Aziraphale’s smile still looks just as warm, but there’s something guarded about it, a once bright light now dulled. And Crowley knows, now more than anything, Aziraphale just wants a reason to laugh, something to buoy him.</p><p>For once, it is very, very easy to lie.</p><p>Crowley enthuses about parties he has never been to, places he has never been. Aziraphale listens and nods and laughs along at all the right moments. But, when Crowley invites him into the lie, asking, “And did you get up to much?”, his smile begins to fade.</p><p>“No, I… I’m afraid not. I was…”</p><p>Aziraphale abruptly stops speaking. For a moment, Crowley wonders why before he sees that they’ve already reached the alleyway where he’s covertly parked the Bentley. He shrugs, suddenly shy in the face of Aziraphale’s silence.</p><p>“Was hardly going to get us a cab, was I?” He opens the passenger door. “To the bookshop, then?”</p><p>Aziraphale starts, as if rousing from a daydream. “Oh! Yes, my dear, only if it isn’t too much—”</p><p>“S’no trouble,” Crowley cuts him off.</p><p>It’s like a cloud has passed across Aziraphale’s face, a thought brewing, hands twisting nervously over the bag handle.</p><p>The two of them settle inside the car, and Crowley reverses out. He can’t help but notice that Aziraphale is hunching in on himself a little, shoulders tense. Can’t have that. So, Crowley takes his time deliberately, trying to make the turns as smooth as possible. But despite his efforts, it’s still a tricky business even with miracles helping to navigate through the war-torn streets.</p><p>He doesn’t know what has made Aziraphale suddenly sombre, eyes fixed straight ahead. Droplets of rain start to fall on the windows.</p><p>Just to break the silence, Crowley starts to ask, “So, how’s—” (with no clue yet how he’s ending the question), when Aziraphale speaks simultaneously: “Did you take any?”</p><p>Crowley frowns, quickly tries to process the words as Aziraphale barges ahead. There’s a surge of nervous energy to his speech, his eyes now blinking rapidly.</p><p>“I- I confess I was rather—ah, pre-occupied, of course, what with the—all the to-do, you know, and you could have, <em>may</em> have easily—well, not easily, but you might—that is to say, I c-certainly wouldn’t have noticed either way, but—”</p><p>“Aziraphale.” They’re nearing the bookshop, and Crowley makes a show of slowing down and parking. He’s playing for time, of course. He knows exactly what Aziraphale is asking. And yet, he wants more. <em>Let’s not dance around it. Say it out loud</em>. He turns in his seat, and Aziraphale mirrors him. “Taken what, angel?”</p><p>Aziraphale’s jaw tightens. It’s the tiniest moment, but Crowley has to hide a wince. It’s like he can see all the warmth between them unravelling, the briefest honeymoon period evaporating.</p><p>“You know very well <em>what</em>, Crowley.” Aziraphale sighs. Then, after a moment: “Holy water. Did you take any?”</p><p>He doesn’t say it sharply, not exactly, but there is an undeniable edge to his words. Crowley is abruptly aware that whatever he says next could topple everything. He sighs, too.</p><p>“No,” Crowley says, almost a whisper. And, louder: “I would tell you if I did, I swear.”</p><p>Aziraphale smiles a touch ruefully. “Swear on what?”</p><p>There’s an opening there, Crowley recognises it, Aziraphale’s words carrying the thinnest thread of playfulness. He nods at the bag perched on Aziraphale’s knees.</p><p>“There’s bound to be a bible in there, surely? Mind you, don’t really fancy burning my hand, too.”</p><p>Aziraphale starts. “Burning?” He looks down at where Crowley’s feet still rest against the peddles. His eyes narrow.</p><p>Crowley shrugs—too quickly. “Just a joke.” And, as Aziraphale’s hands repeatedly clench over the bag handle, he adds: “I really didn’t take any, Aziraphale. I wouldn’t lie to you.”</p><p>“No…” Aziraphale trails off. Perhaps centuries ago it would have sounded dubious, but now it just sounds like another sigh. “You wouldn’t, would you.”</p><p>Aziraphale opens the door on his side, clambers out with the bag. Crowley doesn’t watch him, already waiting for the expectant clunk of the door closing. He leans forward to turn the key in the ignition and—</p><p>“Crowley, what <em>are </em>you doing?”</p><p>Bewildered, Crowley looks up. Aziraphale is still standing outside, the passenger door of the Bentley slightly ajar. He’s staring at Crowley like he’s suddenly grown three heads.</p><p>Crowley takes his hands off the keys. His heart is pounding somewhere in his throat. He mustn’t hope too soon. “I… well, I thought…” <em>I thought you’d have had enough of me for one night. </em></p><p>“Oh, but—well, <em>I</em> thought—”</p><p>If it wasn’t for the bag, Crowley is sure Aziraphale would be wringing his hands. Rain is flattening his hair, droplets running down his forehead and into his eyes. Crowley has to bite down on his own tongue before he says something ridiculous like <em>Get inside, angel, before you catch a chill.</em></p><p>Aziraphale glances over to the bookshop, then back to Crowley. “But, you’ll come inside, won’t you? After all, it’s the least I could do after… well, it would only be polite.”</p><p>If he felt brave enough, Crowley would have teased him. <em>Ah, yes, must remember our manners.</em> Instead, he just steps out of the car into the rain. Aziraphale seems to take that as a good enough answer, and hurries to the bookshop door. He looks behind his shoulder as the door opens, like he’s checking Crowley is still there. It nearly causes Crowley to trip over his own feet (and, <em>yes</em>, fine, they are beginning to smart a bit). He’s not sure what he imagined this meeting would go like, but it certainly wasn’t this, with Aziraphale looking at him as if he’s finally returned <em>home.</em> A part of him didn’t think he could ever have this again.</p><p>He shakes the thought off like the rainwater soaking his hat and jacket. He miracles his clothing and hair dry, and it’s only then that his feet really start stinging in earnest. It’s as if, now that he doesn’t have to worry about walking and driving, the adrenaline has abruptly worn off, taking the pain relief with it. </p><p>“Ah. I thought so.” Aziraphale says. He’s frowning and his voice sounds strange, almost like he’s disappointed at being proven right.</p><p>“What?” Crowley says, affecting confusion. He leans against the arm of the couch, hoping he can buy more time.</p><p>“Oh, Crowley, honestly,” Aziraphale sighs. “Why don’t you just sit down? I don’t mean to be rude, dear, but it’s rather obvious your feet are hurting.”</p><p>“Since when have you worried about being rude?” Crowley replies. But, he sits down without further comment. After another pointed look from Aziraphale, he starts gingerly nudging his shoes off.  “Not that I’m saying you’re right,” he says, “But how do you know they’re hurting?”</p><p>Aziraphale shakes his head with a small smile. “You were standing like this.” He demonstrates, leaning against the opposite arm of the couch. He rises up, almost on his tip-toes. One ankle hooks around another, and it’s such an instant imitation of Crowley’s feigned-too-stiff-to-be-casual slouch that Crowley nearly considers applauding. In the next moment, it’s over, Aziraphale straightening up like it never happened. “And, you don’t usually favour that side when you walk.” He steps back. “Tea? Or something stronger? I do have some whisky somewhere…”</p><p>“Whisky’s fine,” Crowley says, and somehow doesn’t blurt out <em>why am I always surprised at how well you know me?</em></p><p>His plan is to slip his socks off while Aziraphale is bustling around, fetching a bottle and glasses. But, it unsurprisingly turns out to be a painful process, and it takes much longer than Crowley would have liked. The socks peel off horribly, clinging to cracked heels.</p><p>Aziraphale pauses mid-pour of whisky, his eyes widening at Crowley’s burned feet. “Oh my—”</p><p>“It’s fine!” Crowley hastens to reassure. “Just letting them get some…” He flounders. “Air? They’ll heal over just fine.”</p><p>“That’s a very human response,” Aziraphale tuts. He considers Crowley’s feet gravely, hands hovering over them, not quite touching. “Of all the foolhardy—what if I messed up the miracle?” He bites his lip. “Or not even that, just… <em>one </em>stray bit of rubble hitting that holy water and heaven knows what would have—”</p><p>“That wouldn’t have happened,” Crowley reassures. “Since when have you messed up a miracle when it really mattered?”</p><p>“Really, Crowley, there’s no need to be such a daredevil about it—”</p><p>“You said that on purpose.”</p><p>“—<em>Cavalier</em>, then, whatever you wish to call it. You must have a great deal of faith in me.”</p><p>It’s said lightly enough, but Crowley is abruptly reminded of how Aziraphale says things, of just how many of his words have another hidden layer to them. It’s especially true of anything he says with a scoff or a forced smile or so damned mildly it’s almost laughable, things like<em>: Michael can be a bit of a stickler; you don’t want to get Gabriel upset with you; a strongly worded note. </em></p><p>And now, Crowley can hear the darkness of that layer almost, but not quite, rising to the surface. There, in that barely perceptible twist of his mouth when he says ‘faith.’ And then, it’s gone as quickly as it came, as if it had never been there in the first place.</p><p><em>It’s not faith</em>, Crowley wants to tell him. <em>That’s believing, but not truly knowing. I <strong>know</strong> you.</em></p><p>Instead, he gives a small shrug. “Well, you know what they say.” Crowley leans further back against the couch. He hopes if he keeps this up, Aziraphale will eventually laugh properly, and they’ll drink and talk about nothing that matters until the wee hours. He flashes a grin, wiggles his toes<em>. See? Don’t worry. Can’t hurt if I’m smiling, can it? </em>“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”</p><p>But, Aziraphale doesn’t laugh. Instead, he just swallows. One hand carefully rests on one of Crowley’s feet, a touch almost as light as air. It’s not a proper healing miracle (<em>Satan, that would probably sting something awful</em>) but there’s still something soothing to it. A gentle balm.</p><p>Slowly, Aziraphale lifts his hand and lowers it to the other foot. After a moment, his fingers brush against Crowley’s ankle, as if to say, <em>there now, all done</em>.</p><p>Aziraphale looks up. “I don’t think you’re a fool, Crowley,” he says softly. He laughs, but it’s a horribly fragile sound. “If anyone is, it’s me.”</p><p>“Don’t say that,” Crowley says. “You’ve got me out of loads of scrapes before. This makes us even.”</p><p>“You have a peculiar way of counting things, then.”</p><p>Aziraphale reaches over to top up their glasses, and they fall silent for a moment. There’s the distant echoing of bombs before one sounds far too close for comfort, setting Aziraphale’s stack of teacups rattling against one another. Aziraphale doesn’t even flinch.</p><p>“You’ll stay, of course?” he says. “At least until the all clear has been given. I don’t want to think of you driving alone in the dark.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s directness is startling. Crowley had been preparing himself for some doublespeak conversation, where some kind of clever loophole has been covertly left for him. He just nods. His eyes catch on the curtains plastered over every window in the shop.</p><p>“You’ve fairly got the place kitted out.”</p><p> “Oh,” Aziraphale says distantly. “Yes, the blackout curtains. They’re just for… keeping up appearances, as it were.”</p><p>“Oh,” Crowley echoes. He doesn’t understand.</p><p>“It’s just… funny,” Aziraphale says, a slight waver in his voice betraying that he doesn’t think it’s funny at all. “I can…I can <em>feel</em> it—the bookshop, I mean—being protected.” His eyes dart upwards fleetingly. “Not so much as a letter to inform me. I-I must admit, I do find it… strange.” His lips thin a little, like he finds the words wholly inadequate for what he is trying to convey. “Surely it would be much more…well, <em>effective</em>, to devote their energies into protecting shelters that <em>humans</em> actually use. I do try to… <em>persuade</em> people into staying here whenever there’s an air raid, but, well—” Aziraphale gives a horribly weak smile of resignation. “You know. There’s only so much we can do.”</p><p>Crowley knows. That’s the thing with demonic or divine intervention. Whether you call them ‘Miracles’ or whatever else Heaven chooses to dress them up as, it all comes down to the same thing. No matter what each side tells you, there’s only so much a temptation can do. In the end, terrifyingly, it all comes down to free will.</p><p>“Besides,” Aziraphale continues. He gives an uncharacteristically disparaging wave towards his bookshelves. “I don’t believe this place would make an altogether reassuring option for a bomb shelter.” Aziraphale starts a little, his gaze jolting back to Crowley. He puts clear effort into brightening his tone. “Still, at least I’ve successfully sheltered one being for tonight.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh, angel, don’t you know? You always have.</em>
</p><p>There’s another long silence that Crowley aches to lighten. He silently attempts to miracle a record into the shop, just so Aziraphale can tease him again for still not singing himself. Nothing happens. There’s a heaviness to his body, and he is reluctantly reminded that there is only so much he can do.</p><p>Crowley tries to hide the yawn behind the back of his hand. Aziraphale still notices with a fond smile.</p><p>“You did divert a bomb, my dear. I imagine that would be quite taxing.”</p><p>“<em>You </em>saved us from it,” Crowley points out.</p><p>“Do keep your feet elevated, there’s a chap.”</p><p>Crowley stretches out along the couch. They talk a little more, he’s certain of it, but his thoughts grow hazier and hazier.</p><p>And then, the world is in inescapable, pitch darkness. Aziraphale, where…</p><p>Aziraphale is crying. Crowley can just make out the words: “I can’t stop it.”</p><p>Crowley’s tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. “Where are you?” he tries to say. It comes out as a useless, formless sound. “I’m here. I can’t find you.”</p><p>It’s a slow awakening. Tendrils of distress still cling on as Crowley comes to, his cheek pressed against the fabric of the couch. He reaches out without thinking, still half-dreaming. There’s a thud. His glass. He’s knocked it off the table.</p><p> </p>
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</div><p>There’s a startled little movement from somewhere in front of him. Crowley can just register a chink of light. Then, he makes out Aziraphale’s fuzzy outline, standing by one of the windows. It makes for a frozen tableau: Aziraphale, one hand peeling back the curtain the tiniest amount.</p><p>Crowley still feels like he’s dreaming. The room looks muted, washed out in shades of grey. He tries to speak and, again, he can only make a strangled, keening noise.</p><p>Aziraphale drops the curtain. “Shh, shh,” he says. His voice is soft, almost reverential. Like he’s speaking to something precious. “You’re alright.”</p><p>Crowley’s eyes close. There’s a soft rustle of clothing—Aziraphale, perching on the arm of the couch. <em>Why do I still want to ask where you are when you’re right next to me?</em></p><p>He feels a gentle movement, a warm hand on his forehead. The last thing he hears is, “There you go,” and he drifts.</p><p>He does not dream again.</p><p>When he next wakes, it’s to Aziraphale putting the windows on a latch. It’s morning. Crowley knows the excuse for him to stay has come and gone.</p><p>“Well, I’ll have to go and think of some more wiles for you to thwart,” he says, too blasé.</p><p>Aziraphale starts. A window handle makes a protesting squeak. “Yes, yes,” is the distracted reply.</p><p>Crowley tries not to let it sting. He swings his legs off the couch and stands. His feet have healed completely, to the point where it almost feels like he’s walking on air.</p><p>He’s opened the front door by the time Aziraphale speaks: “Do be careful, won’t you?”</p><p>Crowley turns back. Aziraphale isn’t looking at him, still fiddling with the curtains.</p><p>“I’ll see you soon,” is what he promises.</p><p>Aziraphale half-turns to face him. His hand raises in a semblance of a wave. Crowley tries not to think of how very alone he appears.</p><p>“Mind how you go,” Aziraphale whispers, but his mouth trembles like he’s saying so much more.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>I died in Hell. –</p><p>(They called it Passchendaele).</p><p>
  <em>—Siegfried Sassoon, Memorial Tablet (Great War)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A not admitting of the wound</p><p>Until it grew so wide</p><p>That all my Life had entered it</p><p>
  <em>—Emily Dickinson, 1188</em>
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</p><p>It is dusk by the time Crowley finds him. It’s not difficult to spot him, a flash of light amongst the grey.</p><p>Aziraphale is twisting and clenching his hands so tightly together that it surely must hurt. He’s standing at the entrance to the underground station, teetering precariously at the top of the stairs. Hordes of people are milling past him without so much as a glance. Crowley watches as a woman collides with Aziraphale’s shoulder in her haste to get inside. But, Aziraphale barely reacts. He doesn’t even look at her, just slightly stepping out of the way with a vacant stare.</p><p>As he gets nearer, Crowley raises his hand in greeting. It takes several long blinks for Aziraphale to respond. It’s like he’s not entirely sure whether Crowley is there or not.</p><p>Then: “Do you feel it, too?” Aziraphale whispers. His hand reaches up, rubbing at his own breastbone, before he seems to catch himself, and lowers it back down to his side.</p><p>Crowley nods. It’s a strange pull, somewhere behind his ribs. It says: <em>Something is going to happen here. Hurry, now. Hurry.</em></p><p>In these times, it is not a welcome feeling.</p><p>“Have—have you—?” Aziraphale sways, just the tiniest amount, but Crowley notices. For a split second, it looks like he’s in danger of falling down the stairs. Aziraphale lurches forward just in time, and continues speaking like nothing has happened. “Have you heard anything from—your side?”</p><p>“No,” Crowley says.</p><p>And, Aziraphale nods, a scattered movement, as if to say <em>right, then. Needs must</em>. “No, nor I,” he says. He sounds short of breath, like it’s being stolen from him with every drone of the air raid siren.</p><p>They descend the stairs together. The pushing and shoving around them only gets worse with every step downwards. On the second last step, Aziraphale stumbles, one ankle twisting awkwardly. He gasps with a sharp snatch of air, and grabs Crowley’s wrist. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s pulse, a panicked, racing flutter behind the delicate skin.</p><p>He tries to ask, “Are you alright?”, but Aziraphale cuts over him with a shaky inhale: “Let’s—let’s…”</p><p>But, he doesn’t finish the sentence, and soon they are swept along with the crowd. Somewhere along the way, Crowley realises Aziraphale has let go of his wrist, and it feels abruptly bare, in a way it never has before.</p><p>The crowd only increases in intensity as they travel further through the underground. Crowley has half a mind to ask for Aziraphale’s hand back, just so they both have something to hold onto in the crush of people all around them. But, he doesn’t know how to find the words, and the crowd soon parts them like an unforgiving tide.</p><p>In an instant, Crowley finds himself pushed up against a tiled wall, winded by a few stray elbows. He is readying himself to fight the flow of people and search for Aziraphale when he catches a glimpse of very familiar blue eyes.</p><p>He turns his head, and sees Aziraphale leaning against the opposite wall. There is hardly any space with how all the people are lining up, still jostling. Crowley only catches snatches of panicked conversation, frantic calls for separated loved ones. Aziraphale holds his gaze for a long moment. Crowley can hear what it means:</p><p><em>Stay where I can see you</em>.</p><p>Crowley nods. Aziraphale manages a pale imitation of a smile before looking away.</p><p>Eventually, people settle. There’s a lull in the clamour, a calm stillness that Crowley knows well by now. Those people fortunate enough to be near Aziraphale are breathing deeply, at peace. Far from the first time, Crowley is strongly reminded of the term ‘guardian angel’.</p><p>The atmosphere becomes relaxed enough for some to light cigarettes. In the weak light, Crowley can’t help but notice how incredibly pale Aziraphale is. It looks like it is taking all his effort to keep his head upright, and not collapsing against the tiles in exhaustion.</p><p>For a moment, the lights flicker, on and off. Then, a few fail entirely. No-one else seems to notice. Aziraphale looks up sharply with a frown. Half of his face is bathed in shadow, but Crowley can still see how he is gritting his teeth.</p><p>The feeling flares in him, suddenly overwhelming. It’s a horrible itching, crawling all over his skin.</p><p>
  <em>Something is going to happen. Leave now. There’s no time. Hurry. Hurry.</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale’s jaw is tight with suppressed pain. His hand is pressed against his chest as it rises and falls in uneven stutters.</p><p>Crowley thinks, <em>Enough</em>.</p><p>He stands. The word ‘angel’ is already on his lips when he sees a shadow, just out of the corner of his eye. He turns and—</p><p>Stops.</p><p>His first thought is so very detached. <em>That almost looks like my hat</em>. Denial tends to be his strongest impulse. But, there are some things Crowley already knows he cannot simply solve through sheer force of will.</p><p>It makes sense that Crowley wouldn’t really see Him at first. Just a dark spot in his peripheral vision, something that you can almost convince yourself isn’t there, as long as you don’t turn to look properly. After all, He is so inextricably woven into life, that He often blends in entirely.</p><p>But, Crowley can’t avoid it. As he keeps staring, the human glamour wears thin. The skull gives off a grotesque glint in the half-light.</p><p>Death is with them—standing, quite still. Despite having gaping empty sockets for eyes, Crowley knows He is watching him, watching them all.</p><p> </p>
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</div><p>Humans typically cannot see Death. It’s as if there’s always a film over their eyes obscuring him from view, blotting His presence out. Of course, a few are more sensitive to his whereabouts. Crowley can detect the fear breaking through even within the embrace of Aziraphale’s enforced calm.</p><p>For one second, Crowley believes that somehow Aziraphale’s gaze will slide past Death, unseeing. He doesn’t know if that ignorance would be a curse or a blessing.</p><p>There’s a sharp hiss behind him. He turns back just in time to see Aziraphale lurch to his feet. What little colour had been remaining in his face abruptly drains away. But, his eyes are blazing, as if the flames from his old sword have been burning in them all along.</p><p>“<em>Crowley,”</em> Aziraphale whispers.</p><p>It’s the most anguished Crowley has ever heard him.</p><p>Death does not move. The longer Crowley looks at Him, the more solid He looks. More real. More terrible.</p><p>Death nods.</p><p>To Crowley? To Aziraphale? To the two of them? Crowley does not have the time to parse it. One blink, and Death has vanished, as if He was never there to begin with.</p><p>Just as Aziraphale’s hand wraps around Crowley’s wrist once more, there’s an ominous high-pitched whistle followed by a loud thud overhead. Crowley feels it reverberate in his chest that is already tight with dread. As reluctant as he is to do so, he pulls his hand free from Aziraphale’s grasp. He tenses his body in anticipation, makes sure his stance is steady.</p><p>“We don’t have long,” he tells Aziraphale, voice low in warning.</p><p>Aziraphale puts one finger to his lips, mouths <em>shh</em>. He waits one beat. Two. He silently forms the words: <em>“I can hear…”</em></p><p>And then, the sheer <em>noise</em> is overpowering. Crowley barely has an instant to realise it’s the fierce roar of water, rushing to meet them.</p><p><em>Shit. The bomb’s hit the mains</em>.</p><p>Crowley pounds the wall with one fist. It’s enough, for now, to freeze the clock. His nails scrape against the tiles with the effort. He has to stay upright. He can’t let everything collapse.</p><p>“Crowley, I—I can’t—”</p><p>Aziraphale’s voice echoes faintly, in this now timeless place. Crowley watches as Aziraphale places one hand next to his, pushing against the wall. Both an angel and a demon fighting against time. <em>Surely that is enough? Please, G—Somebody. Please let it be enough</em>.</p><p>And maybe, in another life, one where the universe is a little kinder, it would be. Come on, he’s moved one bomb before, what’s another miracle? But, Crowley can’t avoid how different this feels. His sway on reality isn’t strong enough to hold. He claws at the tiles, his grip slipping, even as he pushes and pushes. It’s not enough. The ceiling shudders. Reality threatens to surge on, ambivalent to their frantic attempts to stop it.</p><p>They can’t save anyone.</p><p>Crowley can see Aziraphale come to the exact same conclusion, just a moment behind him. His eyes are wide with horror, flickering between the space where Death had been and the oblivious people. He shakes his head.</p><p>“Crowley, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>“I’m trying,” Crowley says, pleading for Aziraphale to understand. He is exhausted, and so is the world, and he cannot unravel all the little things to stop this fixed point in time. He knew it, deep down, as soon as Death had appeared. “I swear, angel, I’m…we’ve done our best.”</p><p>Aziraphale closes his eyes. “I can’t let this happen to them,” is all he says. His voice is wrecked, but it carries a remarkable undercurrent of steel.</p><p>And, while Crowley holds back time with an increasingly fraying thread, he can see the brutal truth unfolding in front of him. Even though the water hasn’t reached them, he can picture it, already up to Aziraphale’s neck. <em>If I wasn’t here, he’d just let himself drown. He wouldn’t leave them to face this alone. </em></p><p>“We have to go,” Crowley urges. He risks gripping Aziraphale’s shoulder with his free hand, giving him a little shake. There’s a metallic groan from above, an awful reminder that time cannot be ignored forever. “Angel! We can’t change it. You have to let go.”</p><p>But, Aziraphale simply shakes his head again. His eyes are still closed, tightening in concentration. For one sickening moment Crowley can see Aziraphale dying here, can imagine Heaven’s sneers, and cutting questions, and—<em>no</em>, not an option.</p><p>Even though inside, he’s pr—begging that he can hold on just a little longer, Crowley’s hand slips off the wall completely.</p><p>It all happens very quickly.</p><p>It shouldn’t be possible. Crowley shouldn’t be able to carve out just a sliver of precious milliseconds as time restarts. But, that is his only option. He registers the explosion, and Aziraphale’s awful <em>scream </em>mingling with that of many others: <em>“I can’t leave them!”</em></p><p>Amongst the chaos, all Crowley can do is tell himself is: <em>He must survive this. Do it for him. For him, for him, for him.</em></p><p>They avoid the water, but only just. By the skin of his teeth, Crowley wrenches them both out. He doesn’t have anything left within him to brace for the landing, never mind make it any softer. He falls on his knees, coughing, eyes stinging with dust and debris.</p><p>Very close by, he hears a horrible, dry retching noise. Crowley’s head turns, and he sees Aziraphale, lying outstretched on the ground. His face is nearly touching the cobblestones.</p><p>“Aziraphale!”</p><p>Aziraphale retches again. It is a pained clench of air, but there’s another sound partially concealed, something that Aziraphale won’t allow to fully become a sob.</p><p>When no other response is forthcoming, Crowley attempts to blink out the grit in his eyes, no matter how much it hurts. He tries to swallow down the doubt that his miracle was done too hastily, but… but what if it harmed…? He frantically checks Aziraphale’s body. From the way Aziraphale is only a fraction away from lying prone on the ground, Crowley half-expects to see blood marring his hairline.</p><p>There isn’t. But, he can’t stop himself from asking. Just in case. He has long since learned to fear uncertainty. “Are you injured?”</p><p><em>“No,”</em> Aziraphale says. His eyes are still closed. His hands scrape against the cobblestones, as if futilely searching for something to hold onto. “<em>No,</em> <em>no</em>…” He keeps saying just that, over and over, until it no longer sounds like an answer to the question.</p><p>But, as quick as a light being extinguished, Aziraphale stops. He exhales slowly, and rises to his feet. His eyes soon dart away from Crowley’s, focus landing at a spot near his feet.</p><p>“Oh,” Aziraphale whispers. “Your glasses.”</p><p>Crowley looks down. No wonder his eyes are hurting: his glasses lie in pieces, lenses cracked and strewn across the ground.</p><p><em>They don’t matter, angel</em>, Crowley wants to tell him. But, he’s hit with the terrifying realisation that he simply doesn’t know what Aziraphale needs to hear right now—especially not when he’s staring at the broken glasses with vacant eyes, like he’s seeing a corpse instead.</p><p>Aziraphale flicks his wrist. There’s a ripple in the air, something you can only see if you know what to look out for. The broken pieces fly back into a whole, frames and lenses pristine and perfect. Crowley’s eyes no longer sting.</p><p>Crowley bends down, and picks up the glasses. He can hear Aziraphale’s ragged breathing just above him. Before he stands, he puts the glasses inside his trouser pocket. He is suddenly sure that Aziraphale needs to see something real, something living, not just a shield to the world.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Crowley murmurs.</p><p>Aziraphale’s eyes immediately flash with emotion. It’s gone too quickly for Crowley to analyse, hidden beneath a dull veneer. It’s enough for him to know a storm is coming.</p><p>Crowley tries again. “Angel,” he begins, but Aziraphale starts, like the word is barbed wire, lancing through him. Crowley is struck by the intense want to make things right, to at least get him <em>home</em>. He changes tack entirely: “I’m sorry I…I was aiming for the bookshop, but I don’t know—well.” He shrugs at the unrecognisable alley they are in.</p><p>Aziraphale blinks slowly. He somehow gives the impression that he’s only just seeing Crowley, as if he’s been left bereft by another decades-long stretch of time.</p><p>“No, I…” Aziraphale clears his throat. “You—you did remarkably well. In fact…” He gives a vague hand wave into the near-distance. “We’re almost home.”</p><p>But, he does not move. Crowley shuffles a little closer. “Let’s…?”</p><p>Aziraphale gives himself a shake. He nods. “Home,” he says, declaratively.</p><p>It’s one of the precious words Crowley does not yet feel he <em>can</em> say.</p><p>“Home,” Aziraphale says again, as if it’s the only word he knows how to say.</p><p>They walk in silence. Crowley wonders if it would have been better if Aziraphale had shouted. There’s an obvious line of tension in the set of his shoulders, worsening with every step forward. Crowley can see the immense effort it is taking for him to act as if this is a night like any other. Like the tragedy of only a few moments before belongs to a nightmare, and not their reality. It’s an awful thing, to be familiar with that kind of pretence. It can’t be sustained forever.</p><p>But, Aziraphale’s mask slips only once during their walk. He falters at the front door to the bookshop. His hand brushes against one of the little windowpanes rather than the door handle. He sniffs, and opens the door with one jerky motion. “You’ll be wanting a drink, of course,” he says, eerily matter of fact, as if Crowley has merely popped round for a chat.</p><p>“No,” Crowley says, mouth dry. “It’s fine.”</p><p>But, Aziraphale is already heading further into the bookshop. Crowley watches him from just beyond the doorframe, until he can no longer see him. It looks like he’s been engulfed by the room’s sheer darkness.</p><p>Crowley shuts the door, and what little remaining natural light is snuffed out. It feels like he has shut the whole world out instead. It is very, very quiet. A cruel kind of silence. Unasked for, Crowley can hear a tinny echo of once-living screams, like the world’s record, stuck on one long, terrible scratch.</p><p>“Here,” Aziraphale calls with painfully forced cheer.</p><p>Bit by bit, Crowley’s eyes adjust to the lack of light. He sees Aziraphale come into view in a faint grey outline of his usual self. He’s standing by a window, a sliver of weak light managing to come through a crack in the curtains. He’s pouring whisky from a decanter into a glass, the two knocking against one another. He is undeniably shaking. His sleeve is already wet with spilled drink.</p><p>Before Crowley can tell him to leave it be, to sit <em>down</em>, at least, Aziraphale’s grip slackens. The decanter shatters into pieces, drink soaking the floorboards. In this absolute stillness, the noise is horrifically loud. Aziraphale stares down at the mess. Crowley hears his every shallow breath.</p><p>Crowley steps forward. “It’s alright,” he says, quietly. “It’s—”</p><p>With a guttural cry, Aziraphale throws the glass. It smashes against a nearby shelf. Crowley only just has time to ensure no books are tarnished, when—</p><p>Every window flies open, blasting cold air into the room. Blackout curtains and blinds are torn off with the force. Loose papers swirl in the air around them as Aziraphale’s hands, still shaking dreadfully, scrabble for the light switch. The abrupt change from darkness into light is harsh and overwhelming. The sirens blare, sounding as if they’re right over the top of them.</p><p>They aren’t, Crowley knows. Because he can hear the screaming again, seemingly closer than ever. The roar of water returns, with nothing of the sort in sight. He knows exactly what this is. These are all the painfully fresh sounds of the past, repeating over and over in Aziraphale’s head.</p><p>Aziraphale throws his head back, glaring at the ceiling. “Come <em>on</em>, then!” he screams. His voice splinters off into too many emotions to count: hysteria, scorn, goading… “What’s another strike for tonight?”</p><p>To anyone else, it will look like he’s speaking to no-one. But, Crowley knows it’s something greater, something far more terrible.</p><p>“Aziraphale!” Crowley raises his voice over the din. With a snap of his fingers, he manages to slam one window shut, but Aziraphale’s power is overwhelming. He never could have predicted that he’d be trying to stop a war-weary angel from taunting God. “Aziraphale, <em>stop</em>.”</p><p>But, Aziraphale only looks at him after he’s torn off a straggling curtain by himself, chest heaving. “What’s the point in having these blasted things—it doesn’t matter!” He laughs wildly, the sound drenched in bitterness. “I can feel it still. Heaven’s <em>protection</em>.” He spits the word with such derision that Crowley pictures the ground cracking open beneath their feet, Hell rising up to greet them. Aziraphale tears at the black cloth, throwing it on the floor when his fingers won’t cooperate. He seethes, “All the bombs in the world could not make this place fall.”</p><p>Crowley takes another cautious step forward. “Angel—”</p><p>“Yes! I am!” Aziraphale hands reach up, tugging at his hair. “And what good is that if I can’t <em>do anything!</em>” His eyes glint dangerously. Crowley suddenly feels like he’s peering through a looking glass from millennia ago. “What damned good is that when there’s no-one—”</p><p>“Aziraphale.” Crowley reaches out, palms up. A warning. A plea. “Please. Don’t.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s strangled excuse for a laugh sounds too close to a sob. “Do you honestly think anyone is still there?”</p><p>Crowley cannot answer that. He steps closer. “I’m here,” he replies. “I’m right here with you.”</p><p>Aziraphale closes his eyes. The screams, sirens, everything stops. The whirling papers flutter to the ground. The remaining open windows fall shut, frames rattling before quieting. When Aziraphale opens his eyes, they are shining with unshed tears.</p><p>“Do you know how many souls I’ve saved from—this?” He blinks. A tear falls. “Not one,” he whispers.</p><p>“That’s not true.” Crowley takes one last step forward. </p><p>Aziraphale shakes his head. He makes as if to cover his mouth with one hand, before his knees buckle. Crowley moves quickly, steadies him before he falls, and carefully lowers them both to the ground.</p><p>For a long moment, neither of them speak.</p><p>Then, because it’s the one thing he knows he can fix, Crowley mends the decanter and glass with a subtle wave of his hand. In the dim light still managing to seep through the windows, he can see that Aziraphale’s lips are terribly dry, dust from the station clinging to the split skin. Crowley taps the floor, and the glass is there, filled with water.</p><p>“Here,” he murmurs. He lifts the glass up. “It’ll… it’ll help.”</p><p>Aziraphale does not look up.</p><p>“Just a sip,” Crowley says, and tries to keep his voice even and calm. “Just a—that’s it…”</p><p>Aziraphale takes the glass, but when he tries to raise it to his lips, he makes a choked gasping sound, like he’s drowning. He shakes his head again, drops the glass. This time, Crowley makes sure it doesn’t break.</p><p>“Alright, that’s alright,” Crowley says quickly. “Look, we can…”</p><p>Aziraphale’s whole body leans forward, into Crowley’s space. He can only watch in mute heartbreak, as Aziraphale bows his head, nestles in the space between Crowley’s arms, and quietly falls apart. Crowley feels tears on his forearms.</p><p>He bends down, presses his mouth fleetingly to Aziraphale’s hair. The sobs are wrenching things, sounding from somewhere deep within. He gently cradles Aziraphale’s head, and tries to simply give him peace, someone to hold onto.</p><p>Aziraphale soon tries to speak. He turns his head, and Crowley can feel his frantic inhales, his lips moving against Crowley’s skin. Crowley strokes one hand through Aziraphale’s hair, down to the nape of his neck, and prays that it somewhat soothes him.</p><p> It’s hard to hear through the force of Aziraphale’s weeping, but Crowley can eventually make out the words. They sound dangerously close to, <em>“F-forgive me.”</em></p><p>He freezes without thinking, then rushes to resume his hold. “Shh, none of that,” he says.</p><p>But, Aziraphale keeps trying to force out speech, even when his breathing turns more desperate—pained, staccato snatches of air. Crowley wants to somehow give away all the air in his lungs, take away every tremor wracking Aziraphale’s chest. How do you heal a wound this deep?</p><p>“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and hopes it breaks through. “You’re alright. Listen to me, hey? You don’t need to say anything. Oh, you’re alright.”</p><p>It takes a little time, but Aziraphale must hear him. Minute by minute, his breathing evens out, with only a few stutters remaining, like waves crashing on the shore. And then, Crowley feels Aziraphale’s lips move against his arm again, with an almost silent sigh.</p><p>
  <em>He’s… he’s saying my name.</em>
</p><p>“I’m here,” Crowley says. “I’m right here.”</p><p>He senses that Aziraphale will lift his head just before it happens, notices Aziraphale take a series of slow preparatory breaths. He pulls away only slightly, and his hands hover over Aziraphale’s shoulders, just in case.</p><p>They stand as one. Aziraphale looks up. Steps back. Crowley quickly drops his hands.</p><p>“P-please,” Aziraphale says. His voice is hoarse. “Please, don’t go—I just—I need…”</p><p>And, Crowley knows that all he needs is a moment alone. Of course. Surely he knows that Crowley would give him anything?</p><p>“I’m staying,” he reassures, when Aziraphale does not move.</p><p>Aziraphale gives a delayed nod. His eyes are fixed on the floor. Crowley bends down to pick up some of the stray papers, just to give Aziraphale an excuse to leave. He hears him walk through to the back of the shop, hears the squeak of a tap being turned on. He acts like he cannot hear the stifled sobs underneath the sound of running water.</p><p>To give Aziraphale more time, Crowley tidies everything by hand. It’s calming, to put the papers into neat little piles on Aziraphale’s desk; more caring, to figure out what new complex sorting system he has, then slot the books back into their rightful places. He smooths out the curtains, carefully pins them back up against the windows, one by one.</p><p>There’s a creak of the floorboards. Crowley makes sure the last curtain is precisely as it was, before turning around.</p><p>Aziraphale is standing there, and from his stiff posture, Crowley can tell his hands are clasped behind his back. His face is clean, with only the slightest tell-tale rim of red around his eyes. He sighs, finally looking into Crowley’s eyes directly.</p><p>“Would you… sit with me?”</p><p>Crowley nods, and follows.</p><p>They sit, side by side on the couch. Their knees are brushing together. They don’t mention it.</p><p>Aziraphale rubs his hand across his face, slowly, like just that movement alone is draining him. “I’m sorry,” he says. Before Crowley can protest, Aziraphale leans closer still, and briefly squeezes Crowley’s knee. “Let me finish,” he says gently. “I’m sorry I left you to…” He swallows. “To get us out. I thought—well.” His mouth quivers, just a little, and he presses his hand to his face again. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”</p><p>There are so many things Crowley can give in reply. Things like <em>of course it matters, it always does, you always do</em> and <em>you don’t need to apologise, I’d do it again, I’d do it a thousand times. Anything to save you. </em>Yet those words don’t get to the heart of the matter, the hidden, hurting thing that had Aziraphale crying in his arms. So, he puts voice to what has been scaring him all along: “Would… would you have left in time? If I wasn’t there.”</p><p>Aziraphale sighs again. “I—I’m afraid I don’t know. I wanted to think I could… do something. But, if it didn’t—that is, if I didn’t—maybe it would have been—” He closes his eyes, and he looks so tired that Crowley wants to get off the couch, just to give him enough space to rest. “Penance,” Aziraphale finishes.</p><p><em>Penance</em>. Crowley half-mouths the word at first, disbelieving, silently horrified. “Why on earth would you think that?”</p><p>Aziraphale opens his eyes. “Because I—oh, you must know I caused it all, Crowley!”</p><p>“What? The war?”</p><p>“<em>Every </em>war. E-ever since I…” Aziraphale’s voice fails, and he looks down at his own knees, blinking rapidly.</p><p>Crowley stares. He has learnt, over the years, how to fill in many gaps. He sees a flaming sword, offered only with absolute concern, with <em>care</em> in mind.</p><p>“No,” Crowley says emphatically. “Don’t say that.” And, he thinks <em>Don’t say that about the world’s first kindness.</em> “Angel, you couldn’t have known.”</p><p>“But, I should have <em>thought</em>.”</p><p>“That’s not—”</p><p>Aziraphale raises one hand. Crowley falls silent. “Please, Crowley, I—I fear if I don’t speak now, I never will.”</p><p>So, Crowley waits. After another fortifying breath, Aziraphale speaks:</p><p>“After… after the Great War, I thought, perhaps…there was so—so much pain and… I thought, for once, people would listen. But, no matter what I… even with all that suffering, I couldn’t stop some from thinking it—it had all been <em>worthwhile.”</em></p><p>Aziraphale grits his teeth, and exhales with a shudder. Crowley thinks of the Fall, and the false glory of Divine Retribution.</p><p>Aziraphale’s hand reaches up towards his own chest, clutching tightly at his shirt. “Crowley, I’m so… so afraid I’ve caused such terrible distress—!”</p><p>“<em>No</em>. Aziraphale.” Crowley squeezes his shoulder imploringly. “That’s not on you to—you can’t…” He grapples for the right words. “No-one should bear that alone. Especially not you.” <em>Never you</em>.</p><p>Slowly, Aziraphale’s hand falls from his chest. He breathes deeply, in through his nose, out through his mouth.</p><p><em>I’m so sorry. I never should have left you</em>.</p><p>Aziraphale looks up sharply, and Crowley realises he has spoken his thoughts out loud. He pauses. Might as well continue. After everything that Aziraphale has let out, he deserves honesty in return, at the very least.</p><p>“The… in the 20s, I didn’t—I wasn’t partying.”</p><p>“Oh, Crowley. I knew that.” And, despite everything, Aziraphale smiles.</p><p>“I slept. Mostly,” Crowley says. He feels, in the pit of his stomach, deeply, deeply ashamed.</p><p>“Look at me.” Aziraphale’s hand is on his knee again. “My dear, throughout all those years, the one certainty I had was that you would have done something, if it was at all possible.”</p><p>
  <em>Can’t you see? I thought the same for you.</em>
</p><p>“I’ve been tied to London. Since the Great War,” Aziraphale says, as if he’s picking up the thread of a conversation they have never dared to follow. “Quite forcibly.” His fingers rub in an anxious pattern around his wrist, like invisible manacles. “That was the only… well, I still don’t know if it counts as communication. That and…” Another glance upwards. “The bookshop’s protection. I’m afraid I…well.” His lips twitch into a self-deprecating smile. “I rather glossed over just how…”</p><p>He trails off, blinking fiercely.</p><p>“Aziraphale, you don’t have to—”</p><p>“When my miracles never held, I kept trying, you see. I’m afraid I rather made a fool out of myself.” He looks suddenly close to tears again. “I was b-begging people to stay. Knocking on doors and all sorts…that’s how I knew.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “I was practically revealing—what I am to, to <em>humans</em>. Not a single reprimand came. Heaven isn’t listening. Not for now. Not for a long time, I don’t think.”</p><p>If it were any other time, perhaps Crowley would have rejoiced at hearing this. Perhaps it would have meant freedom. Now, he just feels sick.</p><p>Aziraphale half-collapses against him, his head leaning heavily on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley glances down, sees his face still looks completely ashen.</p><p>“Have you slept at all?” Crowley asks.</p><p>Aziraphale sniffs. “No, I could never.”</p><p>“You can. I’ll keep watch, if you like.”</p><p>Aziraphale shakes his head. His nose nudges against the fabric of Crowley’s jacket. “No, I meant… I <em>can’t</em>.” He lifts his hand, closing it into a fist, and gingerly placing it on Crowley’s chest. “You feel it, too.” It isn’t a question.</p><p>Crowley closes his eyes for a moment. Yes, he feels it. It’s impossible to avoid. The weight of the world’s grief. Every unanswered prayer. Perpetual mourning. He doesn’t know how to tell Aziraphale this is partly what made him long for rest. At least for a little while. He tries to imagine himself in Aziraphale’s place, an angel trapped, with no way to truly solve things. Oh. Oh, of course. Of course Aziraphale, when faced with no other option, would think it was his duty to stand guard. A constant vigil.</p><p>“I must confess I… I don’t know what is worse,” Aziraphale says. He speaks in an undertone. “If—if Heaven feels <em>this</em>—” His fingers unfurl on Crowley’s chest, slack with exhaustion. “And they ignore it. Or… or perhaps they just don’t <em>feel </em>it at all. And so, I can’t think about it, do you understand?” His voice tightens, tilting into something fraught with anxiety. “I just can’t think about it.”</p><p>“You don’t need to explain it. Not to me.”</p><p>Crowley feels Aziraphale move, peeling his jacket back. His mouth presses against the bare skin of Crowley’s shoulder in a facsimile of a kiss.</p><p>“I just think…” Aziraphale sighs. “How many more times does the world have to end?”</p><p>Crowley doesn’t have an answer. He stays awake the whole night, knowing this will be another moment to lock away, to never address again. And, while Aziraphale relaxes against his shoulder more and more, Crowley can sense he’s constantly holding himself back. There’s still a line of tension, taut within him, as if his corporation itself is silently holding him to account: a principality cannot rest.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>brave love, dream</p><p>not of staunching such strict flame, but come,</p><p>lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.</p><p>—Sylvia Plath, <em>Firesong</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>You are tired,</p><p>(I think)</p><p>Of the always puzzle of living and doing;</p><p>And so am I.</p><p>Come with me, then,</p><p>And we’ll leave it far and far away —</p><p>(Only you and I, understand!)</p><p>—e.e.cummings, <em>You are tired (I think)</em></p><p> </p><p>Crowley wakes to a sharp screech of brakes. He jolts forward in his seat, but Aziraphale’s arm reaches across to steady him.</p><p>“Oh, Crowley, I—I do beg your pardon. I was… miles away.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s voice still sounds like it’s in that distant place he disappears to whenever he’s thinking about something deeply, somewhere Crowley can never quite reach. The scrap of paper is still clasped in between his fingers. There’s a little tear at one of the corners, no doubt from Aziraphale’s incessant fiddling.</p><p>Exhaustion still tugs at Crowley like a relentless anchor. It feels like something far deeper than simple sleep can solve. As Aziraphale gets out of his seat, he almost wants to beg him to stay. The bus has become a now welcome limbo. As long as they stay here, maybe no-one from above or below will come for them.</p><p>It’s a comforting lie, but a lie all the same.</p><p>Crowley stumbles as he follows Aziraphale out of the bus. He pushes his palms against his eyelids, hoping to will away the fatigue by force. He feels strange, woozy, as if everything has a slight delay: his movements; his thoughts; even what he can hear.</p><p>“—ley? Crowley, which floor?”</p><p>Oh. They’re in the lift already. He can’t recall getting there at all. Like his life has abruptly skipped mid-track, and he can’t find where he fits.</p><p>“Sorry. It usually just… <em>knows</em>, but, um.” His hand shakes as he presses the button.</p><p>In the space of another long blink, Aziraphale is opening the front door. He turns back, frowning slightly. “Crowley?”</p><p>Crowley gives himself a shake. “D’you want a drink?”</p><p>Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, I think not. That is,” he hastens to amend, “I’m still… mulling over things. Be best to have a relatively clear head.”</p><p>“Suit yourself,” Crowley says. It’s a poor attempt at sounding offhand, particularly when he’s not even crossed the threshold yet. He gives himself a shake, and walks past Aziraphale, leading him to the kitchen.</p><p>A minute passes. Crowley watches Aziraphale quietly mouthing words too fast for him to process, his fingers drumming on the table. Tap, tap, tap. Crowley manages a smirk. “I can hear the cogs turning from here.”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“You can go, you know.” Crowley shrugs. “Walk around.”</p><p>Aziraphale looks a little torn, biting his lip in thought. “If you’re sure,” he says, eventually. “It’s been quite a…I almost…”</p><p>Each sentence is left unfinished, and Crowley smiles properly. “Go,” he says fondly.</p><p>Aziraphale does, but not before giving one last look, hand on the door-frame. Then, he slips out, as silent as smoke.</p><p>It doesn’t take long. He feels his own heartbeat, drumming faster and faster in his ears. <em>I can’t find you… you’ve gone.</em> Crowley tries to act like he’s unaffected, opening up a cupboard and reaching for a glass. <em>He’s not gone, don’t be stupid, he’s right here, you just can’t see him, he’s—he’s—</em></p><p>Crowley doesn’t realise he’s dropped the glass until he hears it shattering against the floor. Shards fly, scattering and flinging themselves into hard to reach corners.</p><p>“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is a concerned echo, coming from somewhere in the hall.</p><p>For a second, all Crowley can do is catch his breath. “It’s fine,” he calls back. He kicks the stray pieces of glass aside with a scuff of his shoes. He knows he’d only botch the mending miracle in this state.</p><p>He heads out, into the hall, and sees a door, slightly ajar. The day floods back to him, and he’s quickly striding inside.</p><p>“Wait,” Crowley says, a moment too late.</p><p> “<em>Oh</em>,” Aziraphale breathes. His hand reaches out, brushing against the wall as if he needs the support to remain upright.</p><p>On the floor, there is an empty tartan thermos.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Crowley says, too sick with tiredness to figure out what exactly he is apologising for.</p><p>Aziraphale breathes out. “No, no,” he says, briskly. “It just… startled me.” He bends down, and picks up the thermos. One finger carefully traces around the rim, as if to catch possible rogue droplets of water. He places his other hand on the floor, and freezes.</p><p>“They came for you,” Aziraphale murmurs.</p><p>There is no longer any trace of perished demon in the room, but Crowley doesn’t question how Aziraphale knows. It’s clear there’s no evading the truth from that steely gaze.</p><p>“And you… used the water,” Aziraphale continues.</p><p>“Yes,” Crowley admits.</p><p>Aziraphale stands up. His hand tightens in its grip of the thermos. “Good,” he says, with a long sigh, as if a forever growing weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders.</p><p>And, it’s Aziraphale who leads Crowley back through to the kitchen. He stops at the sight of the smashed glass, but mends it without comment, save for giving Crowley one searching look.</p><p>“Right,” Aziraphale says. He sets the thermos down on the table, and then smooths out the paper containing the prophecy, so the two sit side by side. “I figured it all out.” He smiles, as if it’s as easy as reserving a table for lunch. “Rather literal, but it does work in our favour.”</p><p>Crowley waits. He listens. And, as Aziraphale gets more and more confident, he only feels a numb panic seeping its way through every nerve in his body.</p><p>“There’s a lot of things they haven’t told us we<em> can</em> do, Crowley,” Aziraphale concludes. “Besides, between the two of us, we’ve been doing the impossible for ages.” He puts his hands out, palms up, imitating a tilting set of scales. “Miracles, temptations…” He smiles again. “Like a magic trick.”</p><p>Crowley just stares. <em>I thought you’d burned. I thought I’d left you to die alone</em>.</p><p>This shouldn’t be happening. Crowley knows this, knows he should just snap out of it, knows he should throw on his old bravado like a well-worn favourite coat. A cocky laugh. <em>“Oh, angel, you clever bastard.”</em> But, he can’t. All he can see is how it could all go so terribly wrong.</p><p>“No,” he manages, voice brittle.</p><p>Aziraphale’s smile fades. “What would you prefer, then?” he asks shortly. “That we surrender? We let them come and take us now?”</p><p>“You don’t know what you’re asking.”</p><p>“Really, Crowley, I know full well—”</p><p>“No, you <em>don’t!</em> You don’t know!”</p><p>Crowley’s hand slams down on the table. The thermos falls. Aziraphale looks stricken.</p><p>There’s something threatening to claw out of Crowley’s chest. His eyes prickle with heat, his breathing quickens even more, and—oh, Christ, he’s going to cry, he can’t cry like this, they don’t have enough time, they never have enough <em>time</em>.</p><p>He inhales with a hiss, blinking fiercely up at the ceiling. It does nothing to diminish the burning in his eyes. He grapples for words, an apology, anything, but he doesn’t trust himself to speak.</p><p>“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, with infinite care, surely far more than Crowley could ever deserve. “It’s alright. It’s quite alright.”</p><p>“It <em>isn’t,”</em> Crowley says, wretched. “How can you s-say—” But, his voice breaks, and he’s turning, stumbling out of the room.</p><p>Aziraphale does not tell him to come back. But, Crowley isn’t quick enough to avoid hearing him say, “<em>Crowley</em>.” It’s full of such flayed-open dismay that Crowley has to bite down hard on his own tongue.</p><p>He slams the bathroom door shut, and turns on the cold water tap. He hopes the noise can drown out the pathetic quivering sounds rising up from his chest. He throws his glasses off landing in the sink with a clatter.</p><p>There’s a soft knock at the door. Aziraphale could easily open it. Crowley is silently grateful that he doesn’t.</p><p>“I’m s—”</p><p>“Crowley, there’s nothing to apologise for.”</p><p>“I—I just need…”</p><p>He doesn’t know what he needs. He can hear Aziraphale’s hand slowly trailing across the door. The sound is soothing, and Crowley tries to time his breathing along to it.</p><p>“Would you like to talk?”</p><p>Crowley laughs. The sound bounces off the tiles, rings false in his ears. “Careful,” he says. “I might not stop.”</p><p>“Is that supposed to dissuade me at all?”</p><p>Crowley shakes his head, and laughs once more just so he doesn’t cry. His voice rebounds in the space again, echoing up, up, up… to where he can never get an answer. Does he need one? When the answer that really matters comes from the angel, waiting for him on the other side of the door?</p><p>“Should probably put you off, yeah.”</p><p>“How odd. It never has before.”</p><p>Crowley sighs. He sits down, back to the door. What little energy he has left is dwindling. It’s either stay standing, and not speak at all, or… But, once he’s said it out loud, he can’t take it back. “When the—the bookshop burned down, I thought they’d…” <em>You are damning him</em>, a treacherous part of his mind hisses, but he pushes through it. “I thought they’d taken you,” he finishes, which is only part of the awful truth.</p><p>A pause. “Who?”</p><p>Crowley leans his head back. “Does it matter? All I knew was—they’d killed you.” And, there it is, just like that, lingering in the air between them. The dangerous thing about confessions is that, once you’ve started, it’s all too easy to keep going. “And it’s everything I’ve—the <em>worst </em>thing I’ve ever imagined a-and I can’t stop thinking about it, do you understand? I c-can’t stop, Aziraphale, I’m going to m-make it happen again, I know I’m—I always… please, just. I can’t go through with it. I’ll ruin it, they’ll see right through me, it’ll all b-bleed through, I c-can’t—”</p><p>“Take a breath, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “I’m right here.”</p><p><em>Oh, I love you</em>, Crowley thinks, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth to mask his crying.</p><p>“I just got you back,” he gasps, aching for Aziraphale to understand. “And now I—don’t ask me to—I can’t face losing you. N-not again.”</p><p> </p>
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</div><p>There’s a long silence. Then, he hears a choked whisper: “Would… please would you open the door?”</p><p>Crowley exhales shakily.</p><p>“Please,” Aziraphale adds.</p><p>Crowley does.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale breathes. “I didn’t know.”</p><p>Crowley holds onto Aziraphale, and finally allows himself to fall apart. And, it will be alright. Aziraphale is there.</p><p>“Shh, I have you,” Aziraphale whispers in his ear. Crowley feels him kiss his temple. “Oh, you must know you’ve saved me so many times. There’s a chance for us. I promise you. I promise.”</p><p>When the storm passes, they lie down in bed together, like that’s where they were always meant to be. Under the sheets, Aziraphale moves closer still. Crowley could touch him without even needing to reach out. His chest swells with emotion, centuries of longing, all he’s wanted…</p><p>But, he shuts his eyes. “<em>Please</em>,” he whispers, and that’s all he can get out suddenly—the word hanging tremulously on a tight-rope between them.</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>He can feel Aziraphale’s breath flutter over his skin. “I don’t want—” Crowley grits his teeth at the sound of Aziraphale moving away. “I don’t want you to kiss me if…”</p><p>There’s a small rustle of sound. Aziraphale resting his on a pillow. “If?” he asks, voice soft.</p><p>Crowley swallows. “If you’re… it feels like you’re saying goodbye.”</p><p>A quiet gasp. “Oh. <em>Oh</em>, darling.”</p><p>Crowley opens his eyes in time for Aziraphale to press a kiss to his cheek, fierce like a vow. His chest trembles. “I c-couldn’t—if it’s the last time I—”</p><p>“Hush,” Aziraphale says. “Oh, Crowley. I wouldn’t suggest this if I didn’t think we’d both survive. I swear it.” He finds Crowley’s hand, strokes the knuckles one by one. “The thing is… I love you. And, I intend to have all the time in the world with you.”</p><p>Crowley covers his sob with a shaky laugh. “The world almost ended.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s eyes are shining with something that looks a lot like hope. “Ah, but you’re forgetting,” he whispers, smiling. “It <em>didn’t</em>.”</p><p>*</p><p>“Are you ready?” Aziraphale asks, at dawn.</p><p>Crowley blinks back from his doze. It hadn’t been proper sleep, particularly when Aziraphale was no doubt lying wide awake for the whole night. Crowley remembers stirring earlier, skimming the surface of wakefulness to feel Aziraphale holding his hand. As he sits up, he realises neither of them have let go.</p><p>“How long d’you think we’ll have to wait?” Crowley says. There is an immediate knot of anxiety in his stomach.</p><p>“Oh, no, we’re not waiting,” Aziraphale replies firmly. “We’re not letting them rule the roost.”</p><p>“The…the what?”</p><p>“Listen,” Aziraphale says seriously. “I’m afraid we shall have to be rather brazen about it, my dear. I don’t want us looking over our shoulders for any longer than we have to.”</p><p>“You want to bait them,” Crowley translates.</p><p>Aziraphale’s smile is somehow equal parts steely and sweet. “I think a walk in St. James’s will do nicely.”</p><p>*</p><p>(Crowley falters once.</p><p>They order ice-cream at the park, and there’s a sickeningly familiar pull in his chest. <em>Something is going to happen. Hurry</em>.</p><p>He shakes as he counts out their change. Aziraphale’s hand closes around his wrist. The touch lasts barely longer than a blink, but Crowley carries the warmth with him.</p><p>He hears Death speak. In the end, it’s almost a relief when the only thing that happens is angels holding him captive.)</p><p>*</p><p>They make it through. If you were to ask Crowley, he’d say the only faith involved was their faith in each other.</p><p>The rest of the day drifts by like the floating champagne bubbles. In fact, with a dazzling smile, Aziraphale even manages to get another bottle of champagne from the Ritz to the bookshop. They drink, and talk, and laugh, already creating memories to chase away the ghostly embers of the fire.</p><p>And then, as Aziraphale tidies away their glasses, he bursts into tears. Crowley jumps to his feet, but Aziraphale quickly waves him off.</p><p>“Oh,” Aziraphale says, laughing a little, laughing but still crying, fingers pressing against the corners of his eyes, as if that will keep the tears back. “Oh, I’m just being silly.”</p><p>“You’re not,” Crowley says, probably too fiercely for what the moment calls for. “What’s—I’m sorry, I’ll fix it, whatever it’s—”</p><p>Aziraphale laughs again, all wobbly and watery. “What are you talking about, Crowley? I’m just…” He sniffs and smiles tearfully. “I’m just so relieved. Do you know, I think this is the first time I’ve felt I can breathe properly.”</p><p>“That’s—”</p><p>“Wonderful,” Aziraphale finishes for him. “I daresay as wonderful as you.”</p><p>*</p><p>Around midnight, Crowley can tell Aziraphale is losing the thread of the conversation. He surreptitiously miracles the couch into something more resembling a bed, just as Aziraphale yawns.</p><p>“Dear, you wouldn’t mind if I—”</p><p><em>Anything</em>, Crowley thinks<em>, anything for you</em>.</p><p>“—Rested my eyes? Just for a moment.”</p><p>Crowley smiles. “Of course not . On you go.” <em>So, Aziraphale, angel of the Eastern Gate. You don’t need to guard anymore.</em></p><p>“Keep talking, won’t you, dear?” Aziraphale asks, voice lilting on the wave of sleep.</p><p>“Alright,” Crowley says. “What about?”</p><p>Aziraphale sighs happily, lips quirking into a slow, sleepy smile. “Whatever you like. I just like being reminded that you’re still here.”</p><p>And Aziraphale finally falls asleep, with a slow and gentle grace. True to his word, Crowley murmurs to him in the night, but never loud enough to disturb his rest.</p><p>
  <em>We’ve seen some things, haven’t we, angel? A lot of it… not fair at all. But, this? We’re home now. We deserve this. We always have.</em>
</p><p>*</p><p>Crowley wakes to soft golden light behind his eyelids. He opens his eyes, sits up on the couch. Aziraphale is standing by the window, holding a mug of tea with one hand while pulling the curtain back with the other. From this small distance, he looks illuminated by sunlight.</p><p>At the sound of Crowley getting up, Aziraphale turns. His face lights up. “Good morning, my dear,” he says. It sounds like he’s been waiting to say those words, savouring every syllable.</p><p>Crowley goes to him, wraps an arm around his waist. “You’re beautiful, you know,” he says, because he’s thought it for so long; because he’s thinking it now; because finally, finally, he can say it.</p><p>Their kiss is half-awake and sweet and slow. Crowley covers Aziraphale’s hand holding onto the curtain with his own. “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day, too.”</p><p>Aziraphale looks at him. The curtains falls between their fingers until they both let go of it, and they’re left holding hands. Aziraphale rises up, half on his tiptoes to kiss Crowley again. It feels giddy and joyful. It feels like unrestrained joy.</p><p>“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He’s not looking out of the window at all. His eyes are completely on Crowley, and they<em> shine</em>. “I rather think it will be.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written by jenna221b as part of the Do It With Style Events Good Omens Mini Bang. Beautifully illustrated by <a href="https://khenqart.tumblr.com">khenqart.</a></p><p>Writing this fic has been such a passion project, I've loved every minute of it! khenqart's collaborative illustrations are stunning, I can't thank them enough for how they've brought these scenes to life. And an extra special thank you to the mods behind the Do It With Style Events for this mini bang-- it's been so fun, and I'm so happy that my first 'big' Good Omens fic came out of it. Looking forward to lots more Good Omens related writing, reading and enjoyment in the future. Thank you for reading! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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